Strangers in Venice
by Conigliomannaro
Summary: Roxas just has the time to cast a glance at the golden mosaics of the cathedral, before his eyes catch a glimpse of red ahead in the crowd. It's a flash of orange, yellow and gold, and his heart squeezes: for some reason, that mane of firey tulle looks awfully, eerily familiar. Akuroku masked ball next life fic; full synopsis inside.


**Title:** Strangers in Venice  
**Progress:** 1/1  
**Prompt:** Masked ball, Venice's Carnival.  
**Pairing:** AxelRoxas  
**Rating:** Mild. G or PG.  
**Trigger Warnings:** I think I'm in the clear if I say nope.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Disney/Squeenix; story by me and betaed by **neffectual**  
**Little AN:** I saw some pictures about Venice's Carnival and I thought: I wanna write Axel and Roxas wearing these outfits. No particular point to this other than writing out a situation, I think.  
**Summary:** _Roxas just has the time to cast a glance at the golden mosaics of the cathedral, before his eyes catch a glimpse of red ahead in the crowd. It's a flash of orange, yellow and gold, and his heart squeezes: for some reason, that mane of firey tulle looks awfully, eerily familiar._

It's a strange sensation, feeling observed in such a crowd. He's just one among too many, not even towering above average but rather drowning in the multitude of people, running along Venice's _calli_ and squares. He's not even recognizable at all, wearing a mask and something of a sumptuous getup sewn specifically for one of the past carnivals. It's not every day that a random American student abroad gets to befriend a Venetian fashion student who is nearly a professional seamstress and has a huge intellectual boner over the carnival, and it's not everyday that said friend is _just_ his size; Xion has a penchant for wearing male clothes, and owes an obnoxious amount of carnival costumes plus an incredible amount of matching masks created and painted by zer sister. Roxas hadn't even been too convinced, at first – _I'd look like a miniature doll walking around in all this lace_ – but Xion was so enthusiastic, at the idea of finally wearing matching outfits with someone, that he hadn't had the heart of turning zer down; Naminé had always refused to humour Xion's little dream – _Come on, sis, I'll wear the male outfit and you'll be the pretty princess!_ – and Roxas figured, so long as I wear a mask, things will be cool, right?

They are. It's not like they're not. It's not like he's been maimed, or yelled at, or anything but praised. People stop and stare, ask to take pictures, fawn and coo around his outfit while Xion, on his right, seems to grow ten inches for each word of praise; the fact is that he feels like he's being watched – _observed_ – by someone – always the same person, he's sure of it – and it's beginning to get eerie. It's getting annoying, especially since, hey, he's just a mask among masks, there's no reason to be scared. He's just being an idiot, and that's just as frustrating as the feeling itself is anguishing.

He thinks he sees something, out of the corner of his eye. Something he cannot place – a flash of colour, but he's not even sure _what colour _– moving in the crowd; something that was there, just a second ago, and that is gone by the time he turns. He tries to scan the crowd, to recognize the shade of the flash that caught his attention; unfortunately, he'd see more colours only at a pride parade, probably, and that just isn't helping.

Xion pulls him by the arm, drags him across Piazza San Marco. Roxas just has the time to cast a glance at the golden mosaics of the cathedral, before his eyes catch a glimpse of red ahead in the crowd. It's a flash of orange, yellow and gold, and his heart squeezes: for some reason, that mane of firey tulle looks awfully, eerily familiar. The costume of that man – that's gotta be a man, because if it was a woman she'd be a god forsaken _giant_ – looks like a blaze of fire, folds and fabric pulled and sewed in swirling flurries of flames made of cotton and silk; Roxas suddenly yearns to touch, to feel, to grab the man. To see if he's real, to see if he's really there. It's only when Xion tugs him back and asks just _what the fuck are you doing, dear god_ that he looks at zer and realizes that he was basically trying to elbow his way to a stranger in an orange costume, and he has no idea why.

When he looks back at where the stranger was, of course, the man is gone. The surge of disappointment in his chest is sudden, nearly painful, and he lets out a snarl of frustration. He had him, he had him there – but _him_ who? – and ze called him, ze made him lose_him_, and _god, I may never find him again_. And really, why, why is it even important at all, if he's never seen the man before? It could even be his medieval history teacher in a costume, for all he knows, so it doesn't matter, it makes no sense.

_Find him find him find him find him._

"Xion," he mutters in zer ear, pushing a couple of peacock feathers on the side to avoid breathing them in: it happened twice already, he's not too keen on trying again. "Look out for a man in an orange costume, will ya?" he asks, "With a mess of that flimsy fabric thingie you don't like on his head."

"You mean the fire mask?" ze asks, tilting zer head on a side. "He waved at us, before, when you were taking a picture with the man with the beaked mask. I think he took us for someone else, because then he was gone and the crowd pushed us here. Why? Is he around?"

"He was just there," Roxas hisses in frustration, and he doesn't really know why, but it's really fucking important that he finds _him_ and finds him _now_. He looks at zer, his lips pursued tight. He knows ze couldn't have just known what was going through his head, but it's maddening to think that he had waved at them – had he called them? Had he called _him_? - and ze said nothing, let him get lost into the crowd without a goddamned word. "Just..." he growls, "Just try to see if you can spot him, okay? He's a good half foot above the crowd, it should be easy to catch sight of him."

Xion doesn't comment, and he cannot see zer face under the mask but he already knows that ze is raising a brow at him. He can actually picture zer gaze of pity, and if he wasn't so angry he would feel awkward.

Every touch on his sleeve makes him jump, now; every time someone calls him for a picture he stops and stares, because it could be _him_. There are memories of fire and flames, of hair red like embers and eyes green like summer leaves, and Roxas' throat is choked, his breath is heavy and his chest hurts so much it's numb. This is nothing like the dreams. nothing like the strange mockeries of flashbacks that come to him when he sits on the windowsills of Xion's bedroom, staring into the horizon while the sun sets red, _so_ red. There is a confused sense of belonging that connects all those elements – as if they were all deja-vus – but this is new, this is _more_. It's more and it's better, and he wants – he wants it desperately – an answer, because his reaction to the sight of that man was so violent it half excites, half scares him.

Xion tugs him along – _forget about your flaming giant, let's go, I have a friend who can slip us into the masked ball at the Monaco hotel _– and Roxas follows just because he's at a loss of what else to do. Maybe he's exaggerating, maybe it's not even important, after all. He's seen a flash of red, and it recalled his strange recurring dreams, the weird flashes that come to him when the sunset is bleeding out in the sky; that's all. It's the same brand of bitter sweet pain he gets in his chest when he's on the shoreline of the ocean, the wind blowing the smell of sea and salt against his face. More or less the same feeling as when he saw the Puffo ice cream for the first time, upon his arrival, because _blue ice cream, blue ice cream, oh my god why does it hurt?_  
None of those episodes ever made sense to him, none of those he ever understood. They had no cause, no reason – none at all – and he always shrugged them off. But now, now it feels like he's just a heartbeat away from something he always craved, and the idea of letting it waste away makes him go crazy. He's got to find him – his flaming giant, and why does Xion's nickname sound so right and yet so funny in his mind – he's got to find him and find him now.

Xion's friend is dressed as a plague doctor, a long beaked nose shaping his face into a mask of horror, and he slips them in without much of a word. Roxas has a feeling he knows who it is, and if he's right, Xion won't be attached to his arm much longer; the last time those two met, Xion was on zer knees in a few hours, and Roxas doesn't really wish to be there to see that again. Especially because, with Xion busy, maybe he could sneak out and find his giant, and ask _why_. It's not like ze is actually doing something to hold him back, but he cannot explain to himself why it is so important, let alone to someone else.

There's a dinner, before the ball. Roxas has never felt more constricted, more claustrophobic and suffocated, because god, _god_, that dinner is lasting forever, and he's never going to be finding the man ever again. He's lost. How could he ever find him in the mess – in the crowd of masks and costumes – and at some point a man on his left mentions his wife getting a change of costume.  
And Roxas deflates.  
If the man has changed costumes in the meanwhile, he will never find him again.

By the end of the dinner, he's lost his hope. Xion drags him to the dancefloor and he twirls with zer, but his eyes stay low and empty. He cannot stop thinking _it was him, it was him, he was back_, and even though he has no idea who the fuck this '_him_' is, it feels like he's lost the chance of a lifetime, like he's let the most important thing in his life slip away. It feels like he let himself down in some tragic, irremediable way. He feels drained, more than desperate; miserable, more than angry.

Then the music changes, there's a sudden influx of people coming in from the door, and he _knows_. His eyes open wide, his face lightening up while his mouth slacks open, because he _knows_; suddenly he's alive again, suddenly there's hope, there's the possibility once more of something beautiful. Suddenly destiny has blown some more luck to thread into his hair, and has cast its light to draw a path ahead of him. Suddenly Roxas _knows_, and it's like coming to life again, coming to existence being given a new chance, a new hope.

Suddenly he knows.

_He's here_.

***

It's a subtle feeling – something between anticipation and relief – that raises the hair at the back of his neck. Xion is twirling in his arms, white and femmy for the night like borrowed from the silk of zer dress to the softness of the feathers at the sides of zer mask. It would be a magic moment even without that undertone feeling clawing away at the back of his neck, but as it is right now, it's almost maddening. He scans the crowd with blue, frenetic eyes, and he cannot see him, yet he knows he's close. He's gotta be, and Roxas has got to find him, because it's _important_; because he's yearning to know.  
_Why are you important?_, he'd ask, _And why am I searching for you? Why do I feel like a long waiting has come to an end, and who are you to me?_

Xion pulls zer mask off, leans into his ear. Ze smells like Roxas' very own Armani cologne, and he smiles at the contrast between zer clothes – feminine to the maximum – and zer smell, a very sophisticated male perfume. Yet, his smile freezes on his lips when ze whispers. "Your giant is in a corner," ze says, and zer voice sounds uncharacteristically choked up. Roxas doesn't know, but Xion has had the same flash of recognition, to some smaller extent, and ze wants to follow, to go to the stranger and _touch him_, make sure that he's real, that he's back. It had been the same as with Roxas, though it probably had felt less painful: more like finally coming home, finally going back to a state of perfect quiet and belonging. Ze wants to follow, to elbow zer way to the flash of fire in the corner, but ze also feels that ze _shouldn't_ – not yet, at least, not before Roxas has had _his_ moment – and ze pushes him to turn around, points to a dark orange clad figure in a corner. The man doesn't have his mane on, but Xion insists and shoves Roxas forward. "I recognize the mask. Go go go," ze squeaks, and zer accent becomes harder when ze's agitated.

The man in the mask turns, and his body language changes. He was slumping, up until moments ago, leaned against a wall and playing with his costume's hat while he waited for the night to pass; but as soon as he turned, and as soon as Roxas' eyes met his behind the mask, the man pushed himself from the wall, nearly dived head first into the crowd. He's shoved his elaborate hat on his head again in a moment, but Roxas has had time to notice _red hair, hair as red as embers_; Roxas elbows his way into the twirling couples and so does the man in red, and his eyes behind the mask are _green, green as summer leaves_ and it's _him_, whoever that _him_ is, it's _him_ and he's _back_.

They stop just when they are in front of each other, the absurdity of that whole situation suddenly sinking in. They don't know each other, they have no idea _why_ or _what_ has drawn them together. They just stand there, and Roxas is sweating under the costume, sweating so much that he _needs_ to take his mask off; but he would feel too exposed – too vulnerable – in front of this person he doesn't know, this person he had felt oddly, incomprehensibly drawn to. This person who has the same colours as the flashes in his nightmares, the same colours as the flashes that come with a deep voice; there was also a promise that Roxas made, but he cannot remember it. He's the answer behind Roxas' weird quirks, this tall stranger; he's the answer to why the mere sight or smell of fire makes something ache inside Roxas, the explanation to why the smell of sea or the sight of sunsets make him hurt, feel trapped. He's the explanation to the strange urgency Roxas feels sometimes – like he's got something important to do, but he cannot remember what – and it's all ridiculous and senseless, because this man is just a stranger in an historical costume.

If he even knew this man, how had he recognized him through the mask and the silk? And how had this man recognized him at all, too?

He's the first one to move, and reaches his arms out to offer the man a dance. They still haven't spoken.

The man takes his arms, leads the dance in silence until the music changes, and none of them notice – nor they care about – the curious glances from the other couples. A man and a woman can dance; two women, even. Two men, that's weird. Not wrong – nobody seems disturbed – but odd, yeah. Uncommon. This is modern day Italy, house of both the Catholic church and of some of the best fashion houses in the world, and two men in a costume, waltzing, are a deviation from the norm, that's for sure.  
Nobody even thinks of interrupting, anyway, and Roxas and the man keep staring into each other's eyes without words.

Roxas and the man keep dancing, hands sweating inside the gloves, bodies tingling in ridiculous, childish ways where the warmth of one another seeps through the clothes. They're holding gazes – their eyes are the only part of them that's visible through their multicoloured masks – and they can't look away. Yes, it's there, that answer Roxas searched, and if the way those green eyes are looking at him is of any indication, so thinks the other man. The music fades, and they drift to a corner, still twirling.

Then the man brings a hand to his face, takes a hold of his mask. Roxas' breath gets caught in his throat, and he does the same.

They take their masks off at the same time, and when cheekbones and lips are revealed, there's a twin look of shock on their faces. No names have been exchanged, no words spoken, but Roxas smells fire and embers and tastes seasalt and ice cream and that hair, that hair is like sunset, and _oh my god I found you, I finally, finally found you._

There are no words, before the man leans closer, and the hand on Roxas' cheek is soft, almost shy in its nervous caress. Red locks brush against Roxas' skin, a moment later, and his breath is still stuck in his throat when something in his chest breaks open at the man's touch.

The stranger's lips taste like fritters and spice, and Roxas fists a hand in red hair, squeezes possessively.

_I've been waiting_, he thinks, and memories of black fog and swirling portals come back to him: memories of burning fights and computer screens, and broken promises, and broken hearts.

In a moment, their past has come back.

In a moment, _Axel_ has come back.


End file.
